Chapter IX: Book II: Henry Clavering (4)

“Individuals mentioned arrived in R---- July 3, 1875. Party
consisted of four; the two ladies, their uncle, and the
girl named Hannah. Uncle remained three days, and then
left for a short tour through Massachusetts. Gone two
weeks, during which ladies were seen more or less with the
gentleman named between us, but not to an extent sufficient
to excite gossip or occasion remark, when said gentleman
left R---- abruptly, two days after uncle’s return. Date
July 19. As to habits of ladies, more or less social. They
were always to be seen at picnics, rides, etc., and in the
ballroom. M---- liked best. E----considered grave, and,
towards the last of her stay, moody. It is remembered now
that her manner was always peculiar, and that she was more
or less shunned by her cousin.

However, in the opinion of one girl still to be found at
the hotel, she was the sweetest lady that ever breathed.
No particular reason for this opinion. Uncle, ladies, and
servants left R---- for New York, August 7, 1875.

“2. H. C. arrived at the hotel in R----July 6, 1875,
in-company with Mr. and Mrs. Vandervort, friends of the
above. Left July 19, two weeks from day of arrival. Little
to be learned in regard to him. Remembered as the handsome
gentleman who was in the party with the L. girls, and that
is all.

“3. F----, a small town, some sixteen or seventeen miles
from R----, had for its Methodist minister, in July of last
year, a man who has since died, Samuel Stebbins by name.
Date of decease, Jan. 7 of this year.

“4. Name of man in employ of S. S. at that time is Timothy
Cook. He has been absent, but returned to F---- two days
ago. Can be seen if required.”

“Ah, ha!” I cried aloud at this point, in my sudden surprise and satisfaction; “now we have something to work upon!” And sitting down I penned the following reply:

“T. C. wanted by all means. Also any evidence going to prove
that H. C. and E. L. were married at the house of Mr. S. on
any day of July or August last.”

Next morning came the following telegram:

“T. C. on the road. Remembers a marriage. Will be with you
by 2 P.M.”

At three o’clock of that same day, I stood before Mr. Gryce. “I am here to make my report,” I announced.

The flicker of a smile passed over his face, and he gazed for the first time at his bound-up finger-ends with a softening aspect which must have done them good. “I’m ready,” said he.

“Mr. Gryce,” I began, “do you remember the conclusion we came to at our first interview in this house?”

“I remember the _one you_ came to.”

“Well, well,” I acknowledged a little peevishly, “the one I came to, then. It was this: that if we could find to whom Eleanore Leavenworth felt she owed her best duty and love, we should discover the man who murdered her uncle.”

“And do you imagine you have done this?”

“I do.”

His eyes stole a little nearer my face. “Well! that is good; go on.”

“When I undertook this business of clearing Eleanore Leavenworth from suspicion,” I resumed, “it was with the premonition that this person would prove to be her lover; but I had no idea he would prove to be her husband.”

Mr. Gryce’s gaze flashed like lightning to the ceiling.

“What!” he ejaculated with a frown.

“The lover of Eleanore Leavenworth is likewise her husband,” I repeated. “Mr. Clavering holds no lesser connection to her than that.”

“How have you found that out?” demanded Mr. Gryce, in a harsh tone that argued disappointment or displeasure.

“That I will not take time to state. The question is not how I became acquainted with a certain thing, but is what I assert in regard to it true. If you will cast your eye over this summary of events gleaned by me from the lives of these two persons, I think you will agree with me that it is.” And I held up before his eyes the following:

“During the two weeks commencing July 6, of the year 1875,
and ending July 19, of the same year, Henry R. Clavering,
of London, and Eleanore Leavenworth, of New York, were
guests of the same hotel. _Fact proved by Visitor Book of
the Hotel Union at R_----, _New York_.

“They were not only guests of the same hotel, but are known
to have held more or less communication with each other.
_Fact proved by such servants now employed in R---- as were
in the hotel at that time._

“July 19. Mr. Clavering left R---- abruptly, a circumstance
that would not be considered remarkable if Mr. Leavenworth,
whose violent antipathy to Englishmen as husbands is
publicly known, had not just returned from a journey.

“July 30. Mr. Clavering was seen in the parlor of Mr.
Stebbins, the Methodist minister at F----, a town about
sixteen miles from R----, where he was married to a lady
of great beauty. _Proved by Timothy Cook, a man in the
employ of Mr. Stebbins, who was called in from the garden
to witness the ceremony and sign a paper supposed to be a
certificate._

“July 31. Mr. Clavering takes steamer for Liverpool.
_Proved by newspapers of that date._

“September. Eleanore Leavenworth in her uncle’s house in
New York, conducting herself as usual, but pale of face
and preoccupied in manner. _Proved by servants then in
her service._ Mr. Clavering in London; watches the United
States mails with eagerness, but receives no letters.
Fits up room elegantly, as for a lady. _Proved by secret
communication from London._

“November. Miss Leavenworth still in uncle’s house. No
publication of her marriage ever made. Mr. Clavering in
London; shows signs of uneasiness; the room prepared for
lady closed. _Proved as above._

“January 17, 1876. Mr. Clavering, having returned to
America, engages room at Hoffman House, New York.

“March 1 or 2. Mr. Leavenworth receives a letter signed
by Henry Clavering, in which he complains of having been
ill-used by one of that gentleman’s nieces. A manifest
shade falls over the family at this time.

“March 4. Mr. Clavering under a false name inquires at
the door of Mr. Leavenworth’s house for Miss Eleanore
Leavenworth. _Proved by Thomas._”

“March 4th?” exclaimed Mr. Gryce at this point. “That was the night of the murder.”

“Yes; the Mr. Le Roy Robbins said to have called that evening was none other than Mr. Clavering.”

“March 19. Miss Mary Leavenworth, in a conversation with me,
acknowledges that there is a secret in the family, and is just
upon the point of revealing its nature, when Mr. Clavering
enters the house. Upon his departure she declares her
unwillingness ever to mention the subject again.”

Mr. Gryce slowly waved the paper aside. “And from these facts you draw the inference that Eleanore Leavenworth is the wife of Mr. Clavering?”

“I do.”

“And that, being his wife----”

“It would be natural for her to conceal anything she knew likely to criminate him.”

“Always supposing Clavering himself had done anything criminal!”

“Of course.”

“Which latter supposition you now propose to justify!”

“Which latter supposition it is left for _us_ to justify.”

A peculiar gleam shot over Mr. Gryce’s somewhat abstracted countenance. “Then you have no new evidence against Mr. Clavering?”

“I should think the fact just given, of his standing in the relation of unacknowledged husband to the suspected party was something.”

“No positive evidence as to his being the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, I mean?”

I was obliged to admit I had none which he would consider positive. “But I can show the existence of motive; and I can likewise show it was not only possible, but probable, he was in the house at the time of the murder.”

“Ah, you can!” cried Mr. Gryce, rousing a little from his abstraction.

“The motive was the usual one of self-interest. Mr. Leavenworth stood in the way of Eleanore’s acknowledging him as a husband, and he must therefore be put out of the way.”

“Weak!”

“Motives for murders are sometimes weak.”

“The motive for this was not. Too much calculation was shown for the arm to have been nerved by anything short of the most deliberate intention, founded upon the deadliest necessity of passion or avarice.”

“Avarice?”

“One should never deliberate upon the causes which have led to the destruction of a rich man without taking into account that most common passion of the human race.”

“But----”

“Let us hear what you have to say of Mr. Clavering’s presence in the house at the time of the murder.”

I related what Thomas the butler had told me in regard to Mr. Clavering’s call upon Miss Leavenworth that night, and the lack of proof which existed as to his having left the house when supposed to do so.

“That is worth remembering,” said Mr. Gryce at the conclusion. “Valueless as direct evidence, it might prove of great value as corroborative.” Then, in a graver tone, he went on to say: “Mr. Raymond, are you aware that in all this you have been strengthening the case against Eleanore Leavenworth instead of weakening it?”

I could only ejaculate, in my sudden wonder and dismay.

“You have shown her to be secret, sly, and unprincipled; capable of wronging those to whom she was most bound, her uncle and her husband.”

“You put it very strongly,” said I, conscious of a shocking discrepancy between this description of Eleanore’s character and all that I had preconceived in regard to it.

“No more so than your own conclusions from this story warrant me in doing.” Then, as I sat silent, murmured low, and as if to himself: “If the case was dark against her before, it is doubly so with this supposition established of her being the woman secretly married to Mr. Clavering.”

“And yet,” I protested, unable to give up my hope without a struggle; “you do not, cannot, believe the noble-looking Eleanore guilty of this horrible crime?”

“No,” he slowly said; “you might as well know right here what I think about that. I believe Eleanore Leavenworth to be an innocent woman.”

“You do? Then what,” I cried, swaying between joy at this admission and doubt as to the meaning of his former expressions, “remains to be done?”

Mr. Gryce quietly responded: “Why, nothing but to prove your supposition a false one.”

XXV. TIMOTHY COOK

“Look here upon this picture and on this.”

Hamlet.

I stared at him in amazement. “I doubt if it will be so very difficult,” said he. Then, in a sudden burst, “Where is the man Cook?”

“He is below with Q.”

“That was a wise move; let us see the boys; have them up.”

Stepping to the door I called them.

“I expected, of course, you would want to question them,” said I, coming back.

In another moment the spruce Q and the shock-headed Cook entered the room.

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, directing his attention at the latter in his own whimsical, non-committal way; “this is the deceased Mr. Stebbins’ hired man, is it? Well, you look as though you could tell the truth.”

“I usually calculate to do that thing, sir; at all events, I was never called a liar as I can remember.”

“Of course not, of course not,” returned the affable detective. Then, without any further introduction: “What was the first name of the lady you saw married in your master’s house last summer?”

“Bless me if I know! I don’t think I heard, sir.”

“But you recollect how she looked?”

“As well as if she was my own mother. No disrespect to the lady, sir, if you know her,” he made haste to add, glancing hurriedly at me. “What I mean is, she was so handsome, I could never forget the look of her sweet face if I lived a hundred years.”

“Can you describe her?”

“I don’t know, sirs; she was tall and grand-looking, had the brightest eyes and the whitest hand, and smiled in a way to make even a common man like me wish he had never seen her.”

“Would you know her in a crowd?”

“I would know her anywhere.”

“Very well; now tell us all you can about that marriage.”

“Well, sirs, it was something like this. I had been in Mr. Stebbins’ employ about a year, when one morning as I was hoeing in the garden I saw a gentleman walk rapidly up the road to our gate and come in. I noticed him particularly, because he was so fine-looking; unlike anybody in F----, and, indeed, unlike anybody I had ever seen, for that matter; but I shouldn’t have thought much about that if there hadn’t come along, not five minutes after, a buggy with two ladies in it, which stopped at our gate, too. I saw they wanted to get out, so I went and held their horse for them, and they got down and went into the house.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“No, sir; not then. They had veils on.”

“Very well, go on.”

“I hadn’t been to work long, before I heard some one calling my name, and looking up, saw Mr. Stebbins standing in the doorway beckoning. I went to him, and he said, ‘I want you, Tim; wash your hands and come into the parlor.’ I had never been asked to do that before, and it struck me all of a heap; but I did what he asked, and was so taken aback at the looks of the lady I saw standing up on the floor with the handsome gentleman, that I stumbled over a stool and made a great racket, and didn’t know much where I was or what was going on, till I heard Mr. Stebbins say ‘man and wife’; and then it came over me in a hot kind of way that it was a marriage I was seeing.”

Timothy Cook stopped to wipe his forehead, as if overcome with the very recollection, and Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to remark:

“You say there were two ladies; now where was the other one at this time?”

“She was there, sir; but I didn’t mind much about her, I was so taken up with the handsome one and the way she had of smiling when any one looked at her. I never saw the beat.”

I felt a quick thrill go through me.

“Can you remember the color of her hair or eyes?”

“No, sir; I had a feeling as if she wasn’t dark, and that is all I know.”

“But you remember her face?”

“Yes, sir!”

Mr. Gryce here whispered me to procure two pictures which I would find in a certain drawer in his desk, and set them up in different parts of the room unbeknown to the man.

“You have before said,” pursued Mr. Gryce, “that you have no remembrance of her name. Now, how was that? Weren’t you called upon to sign the certificate?”

“Yes, sir; but I am most ashamed to say it; I was in a sort of maze, and didn’t hear much, and only remember it was a Mr. Clavering she was married to, and that some one called some one else Elner, or something like that. I wish I hadn’t been so stupid, sir, if it would have done you any good.”

“Tell us about the signing of the certificate,” said Mr. Gryce.

“Well, sir, there isn’t much to tell. Mr. Stebbins asked me to put my name down in a certain place on a piece of paper he pushed towards me, and I put it down there; that is all.”

“Was there no other name there when you wrote yours?”

“No, sir. Afterwards Mr. Stebbins turned towards the other lady, who now came forward, and asked her if she wouldn’t please sign it, too; and she said, ‘yes,’ and came very quickly and did so.”

“And didn’t you see her face then?”

“No, sir; her back was to me when she threw by her veil, and I only saw Mr. Stebbins staring at her as she stooped, with a kind of wonder on his face, which made me think she might have been something worth looking at too; but I didn’t see her myself.”

“Well, what happened then?”

“I don’t know, sir. I went stumbling out of the room, and didn’t see anything more.”

“Where were you when the ladies went away?”

“In the garden, sir. I had gone back to my work.”

“You saw them, then. Was the gentleman with them?”

“No, sir; that was the queer part of it all. They went back as they came, and so did he; and in a few minutes Mr. Stebbins came out where I was, and told me I was to say nothing about what I had seen, for it was a secret.”

“Were you the only one in the house who knew anything about it? Weren’t there any women around?”

“No, sir; Miss Stebbins had gone to the sewing circle.”

I had by this time some faint impression of what Mr. Gryce’s suspicions were, and in arranging the pictures had placed one, that of Eleanore, on the mantel-piece, and the other, which was an uncommonly fine photograph of Mary, in plain view on the desk. But Mr. Cook’s back was as yet towards that part of the room, and, taking advantage of the moment, I returned and asked him if that was all he had to tell us about this matter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then,” said Mr. Gryce, with a glance at Q, “isn’t there something you can give Mr. Cook in payment for his story? Look around, will you?”

Q nodded, and moved towards a cupboard in the wall at the side of the mantel-piece; Mr. Cook following him with his eyes, as was natural, when, with a sudden start, he crossed the room and, pausing before the mantel-piece, looked at the picture of Eleanore which I had put there, gave a low grunt of satisfaction or pleasure, looked at it again, and walked away. I felt my heart leap into my throat, and, moved by what impulse of dread or hope I cannot say, turned my back, when suddenly I heard him give vent to a startled exclamation, followed by the words: “Why! here she is; this is her, sirs,” and turning around saw him hurrying towards us with Mary’s picture in his hands.

I do not know as I was greatly surprised. I was powerfully excited, as well as conscious of a certain whirl of thought, and an unsettling of old conclusions that was very confusing; but surprised? No. Mr. Gryce’s manner had too well prepared me.

“This the lady who was married to Mr. Clavering, my good man? I guess you are mistaken,” cried the detective, in a very incredulous tone.

“Mistaken? Didn’t I say I would know her anywhere? This is the lady, if she is the president’s wife herself.” And Mr. Cook leaned over it with a devouring look that was not without its element of homage.

“I am very much astonished,” Mr. Gryce went on, winking at me in a slow, diabolical way which in another mood would have aroused my fiercest anger. “Now, if you had said the other lady was the one”--pointing to the picture on the mantel-piece,” I shouldn’t have wondered.”

“She? I never saw that lady before; but this one--would you mind telling me her name, sirs?”

“If what you say is true, her name is Mrs. Clavering.”

“Clavering? Yes, that was his name.”

“And a very lovely lady,” said Mr. Gryce. “Morris, haven’t you found anything yet?”

Q, for answer, brought forward glasses and a bottle.

But Mr. Cook was in no mood for liquor. I think he was struck with remorse; for, looking from the picture to Q, and from Q to the picture, he said:

“If I have done this lady wrong by my talk, I’ll never forgive myself. You told me I would help her to get her rights; if you have deceived me ----”

“Oh, I haven’t deceived you,” broke in Q, in his short, sharp way. “Ask that gentleman there if we are not all interested in Mrs. Clavering getting her due.”

He had designated me; but I was in no mood to reply. I longed to have the man dismissed, that I might inquire the reason of the great complacency which I now saw overspreading Mr. Gryce’s frame, to his very finger-ends.

“Mr. Cook needn’t be concerned,” remarked Mr. Gryce. “If he will take a glass of warm drink to fortify him for his walk, I think he may go to the lodgings Mr. Morris has provided for him without fear. Give the gent a glass, and let him mix for himself.”

But it was full ten minutes before we were delivered of the man and his vain regrets. Mary’s image had called up every latent feeling in his heart, and I could but wonder over a loveliness capable of swaying the low as well as the high. But at last he yielded to the seductions of the now wily Q, and departed.

Left alone with Mr. Gryce, I must have allowed some of the confused emotions which filled my breast to become apparent on my countenance; for after a few minutes of ominous silence, he exclaimed very grimly, and yet with a latent touch of that complacency I had before noticed:

“This discovery rather upsets you, doesn’t it? Well, it don’t me,” shutting his mouth like a trap. “I expected it.”

“Your conclusions must differ very materially from mine,” I returned; “or you would see that this discovery alters the complexion of the whole affair.”

“It does not alter the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

Mr. Gryce’s very legs grew thoughtful; his voice sank to its deepest tone. “Do you very much want to know?”

“Want to know the truth? What else are we after?”

“Then,” said he, “to my notion, the complexion of things has altered, but very much for the better. As long as Eleanore was believed to be the wife, her action in this matter was accounted for; but the tragedy itself was not. Why should Eleanore or Eleanore’s husband wish the death of a man whose bounty they believed would end with his life? But with Mary, the heiress, proved the wife!--I tell you, Mr. Raymond, it all hangs together now. You must never, in reckoning up an affair of murder like this, forget who it is that most profits by the deceased man’s death.”

“But Eleanore’s silence? her concealment of certain proofs and evidences in her own breast--how will you account for that? I can imagine a woman devoting herself to the shielding of a husband from the consequences of crime; but a cousin’s husband, never.”

Mr. Gryce put his feet very close together, and softly grunted. “Then you still think Mr. Clavering the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth?”

I could only stare at him in my sudden doubt and dread. “Still think?” I repeated.

“Mr. Clavering the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth?”

“Why, what else is there to think? You don’t--you can’t--suspect Eleanore of having deliberately undertaken to help her cousin out of a difficulty by taking the life of their mutual benefactor?”

“No,” said Mr. Gryce; “no, I do not think Eleanore Leavenworth had any hand in the business.”

“Then who--” I began, and stopped, lost in the dark vista that was opening before me.

“Who? Why, who but the one whose past deceit and present necessity demanded his death as a relief? Who but the beautiful, money-loving, man-deceiving goddess----”

I leaped to my feet in my sudden horror and repugnance. “Do not mention the name! You are wrong; but do not speak the name.”

“Excuse me,” said he; “but it will have to be spoken many times, and we may as well begin here and now--who then but Mary Leavenworth; or, if you like it better, Mrs. Henry Clavering? Are you so much surprised? It has been my thought from the beginning.”

XXVI. MR. GRYCE EXPLAINS HIMSELF

“Sits the wind in that corner?”

Much Ado about Nothing.

I do not propose to enter into a description of the mingled feelings aroused in me by this announcement. As a drowning man is said to live over in one terrible instant the events of a lifetime, so each word uttered in my hearing by Mary, from her first introduction to me in her own room, on the morning of the inquest, to our final conversation on the night of Mr. Clavering’s call, swept in one wild phantasmagoria through my brain, leaving me aghast at the signification which her whole conduct seemed to acquire from the lurid light which now fell upon it.

“I perceive that I have pulled down an avalanche of doubts about your ears,” exclaimed my companion from the height of his calm superiority. “You never thought of this possibility, then, yourself?”

“Do not ask me what I have thought. I only know I will never believe your suspicions true. That, however much Mary may have been benefited by her uncle’s death, she never had a hand in it; actual hand, I mean.”

“And what makes you so sure of this?”

“And what makes you so sure of the contrary? It is for you to prove, not for me to prove her innocence.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Gryce, in his slow, sarcastic way, “you recollect that principle of law, do you? If I remember rightly, you have not always been so punctilious in regarding it, or wishing to have it regarded, when the question was whether Mr. Clavering was the assassin or not.”

“But he is a man. It does not seem so dreadful to accuse a man of a crime. But a woman! and such a woman! I cannot listen to it; it is horrible. Nothing short of absolute confession on her part will ever make me believe Mary Leavenworth, or any other woman, committed this deed. It was too cruel, too deliberate, too----”

“Read the criminal records,” broke in Mr. Gryce.

But I was obstinate. “I do not care for the criminal records. All the criminal records in the world would never make me believe Eleanore perpetrated this crime, nor will I be less generous towards her cousin. Mary Leavenworth is a faulty woman, but not a guilty one.”

“You are more lenient in your judgment of her than her cousin was, it appears.”

“I do not understand you,” I muttered, feeling a new and yet more fearful light breaking upon me.

“What! have you forgotten, in the hurry of these late events, the sentence of accusation which we overheard uttered between these ladies on the morning of the inquest?”

“No, but----”

“You believed it to have been spoken by Mary to Eleanore?”

“Of course; didn’t you?”

Oh, the smile which crossed Mr. Gryce’s face! “Scarcely. I left that baby-play for you. I thought one was enough to follow on that tack.”

The light, the light that was breaking upon me! “And do you mean to say it was Eleanore who was speaking at that time? That I have been laboring all these weeks under a terrible mistake, and that you could have righted me with a word, and did not?”

“Well, as to that, I had a purpose in letting you follow your own lead for a while. In the first place, I was not sure myself which spoke; though I had but little doubt about the matter. The voices are, as you must have noticed, very much alike, while the attitudes in which we found them upon entering were such as to be explainable equally by the supposition that Mary was in the act of launching a denunciation, or in that of repelling one. So that, while I did not hesitate myself as to the true explanation of the scene before me, I was pleased to find you accept a contrary one; as in this way both theories had a chance of being tested; as was right in a case of so much mystery. You accordingly took up the affair with one idea for your starting-point, and I with another. You saw every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary’s belief in Eleanore’s guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the result? With you, doubt, contradiction, constant unsettlement, and unwarranted resorts to strange sources for reconcilement between appearances and your own convictions; with me, growing assurance, and a belief which each and every development so far has but served to strengthen and make more probable.”

Again that wild panorama of events, looks, and words swept before me. Mary’s reiterated assertions of her cousin’s innocence, Eleanore’s attitude of lofty silence in regard to certain matters which might be considered by her as pointing towards the murderer.

“Your theory must be the correct one,” I finally admitted; “it was undoubtedly Eleanore who spoke. She believes in Mary’s guilt, and I have been blind, indeed, not to have seen it from the first.”

“If Eleanore Leavenworth believes in her cousin’s criminality, she must have some good reasons for doing so.”

I was obliged to admit that too. “She did not conceal in her bosom that telltale key,--found who knows where?--and destroy, or seek to destroy, it and the letter which introduced her cousin to the public as the unprincipled destroyer of a trusting man’s peace, for nothing.”

“No, no.”

“And yet you, a stranger, a young man who have never seen Mary Leavenworth in any other light than that in which her coquettish nature sought to display itself, presume to say she is innocent, in the face of the attitude maintained from the first by her cousin!”

“But,” said I, in my great unwillingness to accept his conclusions, “Eleanore Leavenworth is but mortal. She may have been mistaken in her inferences. She has never stated what her suspicion was founded upon; nor can we know what basis she has for maintaining the attitude you speak of. Clavering is as likely as Mary to be the assassin, for all we know, and possibly for all she knows.”

“You seem to be almost superstitious in your belief in Clavering’s guilt.”

I recoiled. Was I? Could it be that Mr. Harwell’s fanciful conviction in regard to this man had in any way influenced me to the detriment of my better judgment?

“And you may be right,” Mr. Gryce went on. “I do not pretend to be set in my notions. Future investigation may succeed in fixing something upon him; though I hardly think it likely. His behavior as the secret husband of a woman possessing motives for the commission of a crime has been too consistent throughout.”

“All except his leaving her.”

“No exception at all; for he hasn’t left her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, instead of leaving the country, Mr. Clavering has only made pretence of doing so. That, in place of dragging himself off to Europe at her command, he has only changed his lodgings, and can now be found, not only in a house opposite to hers, but in the window of that house, where he sits day after day watching who goes in and out of her front door.”

I remembered his parting injunction to me, in that memorable interview we had in my office, and saw myself compelled to put a new construction upon it.

“But I was assured at the Hoffman House that he had sailed for Europe, and myself saw the man who professes to have driven him to the steamer.”

“Just so.”

“And Mr. Clavering returned to the city after that?”

“In another carriage, and to another house.”

“And you tell me that man is all right?”

“No; I only say there isn’t the shadow of evidence against him as the person who shot Mr. Leavenworth.”

Rising, I paced the floor, and for a few minutes silence fell between us. But the clock, striking, recalled me to the necessity of the hour, and, turning, I asked Mr. Gryce what he proposed to do now.

“There is but one thing I can do,” said he.

“And that is?”

“To go upon such lights as I have, and cause the arrest of Miss Leavenworth.”

I had by this time schooled myself to endurance, and was able to hear this without uttering an exclamation. But I could not let it pass without making one effort to combat his determination.

“But,” said I, “I do not see what evidence you have, positive enough in its character, to warrant extreme measures. You have yourself intimated that the existence of motive is not enough, even though taken with the fact of the suspected party being in the house at the time of the murder; and what more have you to urge against Miss Leavenworth?”

“Pardon me. I said ‘Miss Leavenworth’; I should have said ‘Eleanore Leavenworth.’”

“Eleanore? What! when you and all unite in thinking that she alone of all these parties to the crime is utterly guiltless of wrong?”

“And yet who is the only one against whom positive testimony of any kind can be brought.”

I could but acknowledge that.

“Mr. Raymond,” he remarked very gravely; “the public is becoming clamorous; something must be done to satisfy it, if only for the moment. Eleanore has laid herself open to the suspicion of the police, and must take the consequences of her action. I am sorry; she is a noble creature; I admire her; but justice is justice, and though I think her innocent, I shall be forced to put her under arrest unless----”

“But I cannot be reconciled to it. It is doing an irretrievable injury to one whose only fault is an undue and mistaken devotion to an unworthy cousin. If Mary is the----.”

“Unless something occurs between now and to-morrow morning,” Mr. Gryce went on, as if I had not spoken.

“To-morrow morning?”

“Yes.”

I tried to realize it; tried to face the fact that all my efforts had been for nothing, and failed.

“Will you not grant me one more day?” I asked in my desperation.

“What to do?”

Alas, I did not know. “To confront Mr. Clavering, and force from him the truth.”

“To make a mess of the whole affair!” he growled. “No, sir; the die is cast. Eleanore Leavenworth knows the one point which fixes this crime upon her cousin, and she must tell us that point or suffer the consequences of her refusal.”

I made one more effort.

“But why to-morrow? Having exhausted so much time already in our inquiries, why not take a little more; especially as the trail is constantly growing warmer? A little more moleing----”

“A little more folderol!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, losing his temper. “No, sir; the hour for moleing has passed; something decisive has got to be done now; though, to be sure, if I could find the one missing link I want----”

“Missing link? What is that?”

“The immediate motive of the tragedy; a bit of proof that Mr. Leavenworth threatened his niece with his displeasure, or Mr. Clavering with his revenge, would place me on the vantage-point at once; no arresting of Eleanore then! No, my lady! I would walk right into your own gilded parlors, and when you asked me if I had found the murderer yet, say ‘yes,’ and show you a bit of paper which would surprise you! But missing links are not so easily found. This has been moled for, and moled for, as you are pleased to call our system of investigation, and totally without result. Nothing but the confession of some one of these several parties to the crime will give us what we want. I will tell you what I will do,” he suddenly cried. “Miss Leavenworth has desired me to report to her; she is very anxious for the detection of the murderer, you know, and offers an immense reward. Well, I will gratify this desire of hers. The suspicions I have, together with my reasons for them, will make an interesting disclosure. I should not greatly wonder if they produced an equally interesting confession.”

I could only jump to my feet in my horror.

“At all events, I propose to try it. Eleanore is worth that much risk any way.”

“It will do no good,” said I. “If Mary is guilty, she will never confess it. If not----”

“She will tell us who is.”

“Not if it is Clavering, her husband.”

“Yes; even if it is Clavering, her husband. She has not the devotion of Eleanore.”

That I could but acknowledge. She would hide no keys for the sake of shielding another: no, if Mary were accused, she would speak. The future opening before us looked sombre enough. And yet when, in a short time from that, I found myself alone in a busy street, the thought that Eleanore was free rose above all others, filling and moving me till my walk home in the rain that day has become a marked memory of my life. It was only with nightfall that I began to realize the truly critical position in which Mary stood if Mr. Gryce’s theory was correct. But, once seized with this thought, nothing could drive it from my mind. Shrink as I would, it was ever before me, haunting me with the direst forebodings. Nor, though I retired early, could I succeed in getting either sleep or rest. All night I tossed on my pillow, saying over to myself with dreary iteration: “Something must happen, something will happen, to prevent Mr. Gryce doing this dreadful thing.” Then I would start up and ask what could happen; and my mind would run over various contingencies, such as,--Mr. Clavering might confess; Hannah might come back; Mary herself wake up to her position and speak the word I had more than once seen trembling on her lips. But further thought showed me how unlikely any of these things were to happen, and it was with a brain utterly exhausted that I fell asleep in the early dawn, to dream I saw Mary standing above Mr. Gryce with a pistol in her hand. I was awakened from this pleasing vision by a heavy knock at the door. Hastily rising, I asked who was there. The answer came in the shape of an envelope thrust under the door. Raising it, I found it to be a note. It was from Mr. Gryce, and ran thus:

“Come at once; Hannah Chester is found.”

* * * * *

“Hannah found?”

“So we have reason to think.”

“When? where? by whom?”

“Sit down, and I will tell you.”

Drawing up a chair in a flurry of hope and fear, I sat down by Mr. Gryce’s side.

“She is not in the cupboard,” that person dryly assured me, noting without doubt how my eyes went travelling about the room in my anxiety and impatience. “We are not absolutely sure that she is anywhere. But word has come to us that a girl’s face believed to be Hannah’s has been seen at the upper window of a certain house in--don’t start--R----, where a year ago she was in the habit of visiting while at the hotel with the Misses Leavenworth. Now, as it has already been determined that she left New York the night of the murder, by the ---- ----Railroad, though for what point we have been unable to ascertain, we consider the matter worth inquiring into.”

“But--”

“If she is there,” resumed Mr. Gryce, “she is secreted; kept very close. No one except the informant has ever seen her, nor is there any suspicion among the neighbors of her being in town.”

“Hannah secreted at a certain house in R----? Whose house?”

Mr. Gryce honored me with one of his grimmest smiles. “The name of the lady she’s with is given in the communication as Belden; Mrs. Amy Belden.”

“Amy Belden! the name found written on a torn envelope by Mr. Clavering’s servant girl in London?”

“Yes.”

I made no attempt to conceal my satisfaction. “Then we are upon the verge of some discovery; Providence has interfered, and Eleanore will be saved! But when did you get this word?”

“Last night, or rather this morning; Q brought it.”

“It was a message, then, to Q?”

“Yes, the result of his moleings while in R----, I suppose.”

“Whom was it signed by?”

“A respectable tinsmith who lives next door to Mrs. B.”

“And is this the first you knew of an Amy Belden living in R----?”

“Yes.”

“Widow or wife?”

“Don’t know; don’t know anything about her but her name.”

“But you have already sent Q to make inquiries?”

“No; the affair is a little too serious for him to manage alone. He is not equal to great occasions, and might fail just for the lack of a keen mind to direct him.”

“In short----”

“I wish you to go. Since I cannot be there myself, I know of no one else sufficiently up in the affair to conduct it to a successful issue. You see, it is not enough to find and identify the girl. The present condition of things demands that the arrest of so important a witness should be kept secret. Now, for a man to walk into a strange house in a distant village, find a girl who is secreted there, frighten her, cajole her, force her, as the case may be, from her hiding-place to a detective’s office in New York, and all without the knowledge of the next-door neighbor, if possible, requires judgment, brains, genius. Then the woman who conceals her! She must have her reasons for doing so; and they must be known. Altogether, the affair is a delicate one. Do you think you can manage it?”

“I should at least like to try.”

Mr. Gryce settled himself on the sofa. “To think what pleasure I am losing on your account!” he grumbled, gazing reproachfully at his helpless limbs. “But to business. How soon can you start?”

“Immediately.”

“Good! a train leaves the depot at 12.15. Take that. Once in R----, it will be for you to decide upon the means of making Mrs. Belden’s acquaintance without arousing her suspicions. Q, who will follow you, will hold himself in readiness to render you any assistance you may require. Only this thing is to be understood: as he will doubtless go in disguise, you are not to recognize him, much less interfere with him and his plans, till he gives you leave to do so, by some preconcerted signal. You are to work in your way, and he in his, till circumstances seem to call for mutual support and countenance. I cannot even say whether you will see him or not; he may find it necessary to keep out of the way; but you may be sure of one thing, that he will know where you are, and that the display of, well, let us say a red silk handkerchief--have you such a thing?”

“I will get one.”

“Will be regarded by him as a sign that you desire his presence or assistance, whether it be shown about your person or at the window of your room.”

“And these are all the instructions you can give me?” I said, as he paused.

“Yes, I don’t know of anything else. You must depend largely upon your own discretion, and the exigencies of the moment. I cannot tell you now what to do. Your own wit will be the best guide. Only, if possible, let me either hear from you or see you by to-morrow at this time.”

And he handed me a cipher in case I should wish to telegraph.